


The New Flatmate

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hedgehog John, Reincarnation, Spirit Animals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:54:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John dies in the war, sherlock gets mental and a little desperate</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Like any other

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by rflaum's beautiful work: http://rflaum.deviantart.com/art/The-New-Flatmate-388520341

It was a cold spring morning. It had been like any other morning, waking up, making tea, sitting down in his favorite armchair to read the paper. The only thing difference was that John was not there, well that wasn't all that strange. John had rejoined the army a few months ago, there was never enough money and the duo found themselves living case to case. John said he had no other option and promised he would be back in due time,  **he promised**. Sherlock missed him, more than he would let himself realize, he tried to ignore it, but it wasn't the same. He constantly chided himself on his foolishness, but even he knew John was his best friend, and he couldn't live without him.

Later that day Sherlock received a text from Lestrade about a murder on Lengmore St., let out an audible sigh that no one would hear and slipped on his coat and scarf. It was the striped scarf that John had gotten him for his birthday, it was hideous in Sherlock's opinion and he only wore it to please John, but now that he was gone... well, he would wear it anyway. Sherlock stepped out of the apartment to hail a taxi.


	2. A Letter

Sherlock was exhausted when he got home, the case had ended up in wild chase to catch the murderer only to end up losing him due to Anderson's carelessness and some misleading evidence provided by a witness as to the murderer's whereabouts. He threw off his jacket harshly but kept the scarf on, it reminded him of john, **my john.** There was a letter on the table, obviously brought in by Ms. Hudson.

 

"Ms. Hudson?!" Sherlock yelled, but Ms. Hudson wasn't around.

 

Sherlock shrugged and went to fetch a letter opener. The letter was manila and smelled faintly of nail polish, a red seal displaying- **wait.** Sherlock just stared blankly at the note, **it can't be**. He turned the letter over, working it through his now shaking hands, **it can't.** Sherlock knew what this meant, but he wanted proof. He cautiously opened the letter, he read it slowly, analyzing each word thoroughly. **No. John.**

 

That'sSherlock broke down. He had _never_  cried like that. The closest he had ever come to, _crying_  was a restrained tear, silent, and only if he was incredibly upset at that, **this was different. This was his John… he promised-**

 

What ensued after that was no silent tear, but a wailing sob, that shook him, like an ocean wave rolling over him. It shook him, and emptied him, it tossed him around until he was throughly bruised. His body crashing on the rocks, each wave like a whip, rolling him over. An unsteady fit of air trying to reach his lungs, panting. A painful mixture of letting it out and restraining his pain. After a while the seas calmed, his body settled into a state of restraint, the kind he was more used to. Sherlock always thought emotions were a dangerous disadvantage, **and this was the final proof.**


	3. But once, it was different

The ceremony would be held in the same graveyard as his tombstone lay. They hadn't removed it, but instead, kept it there until it was needed. They had placed John's head stone next to his as requested by Sherlock, who had a feeling that it would be what he wanted.

 

The ceremony was uncomfortable for everyone, and that was mostly Sherlock's fault. He insisted on wearing the striped scarf John had given him to the dismay and shock of the other guests claiming it was "informal." Sherlock did not speak at the funeral, even when asked to come and share a few words, he remained seated, a silent 15 minutes spent gapping at sherlock as he sat there head-in-hands as if nothing had happened. He knew he couldn't handle it, he didn't even want to be there, but he stayed... **for John.**

 

Sherlock came to the grave every day, than every other day, than once a week became once a month. Things were looking down. Sherlock wasn't as interested in cases anymore, or eating. Mrs. Hudson was constantly worrying about him, but he ignored her. Most of the day were spent silently grabbing at memories that he could still find scattered around him mind palace, dusty and dry. Some fell through his fingers like smoke, others stuck firm and vivd, but it wasn't enough, **it wasn't the same.**

 

One time was different though, and it was just in time.

 

It was cold and dark spring morning, gray like any other, not that sherlock had noticed. It was just like the morning of... the letter. Sherlock was hastily putting on his coat, preparing to leave for the day to visit John. **Yes, John.** Not John's grave, he was not visiting a stone slab with the name of a hero etched onto it, no, he was visiting John, **his John.**

 

It only took the cabbie five minutes to get to the grave site. He had brought flowers with him that time, he rarely every brought flowers, but today was a special occasion. It was the three year anniversary of his death. It had been a long time sherlock thought, **much too long.**

 

Sherlock approached the grave slowly, as if trying not to disturb John. he smoothed the edge of the stone with his thumb. repeatedly stroking it, holding firmly to the edge with his pinkie and index finger, rubbing over the etched stone in calm, practiced, motions.

 

Sherlock set down the flowers in front of the grave, then turned to leave. He would have left- but he felt something brush against his leg- a hedgehog, staring up at him. He would have shoed it away but it wasn't eating the flowers so it wasn't doing any harm, and it reminded him of John, in a weird, spirit animal kind of way. He laughed at himself for having such a foolish thought. He then held out his finger to the creature, it stared at it, then licked it tenderly, sending chills down sherlock's spine. _enough of this_  he thought to himself and turned to leave.

 

he was almost at the curb when the urge to look back at the grave came over him, and it came suddenly, before he could resist it he turned around and to his surprise the sight of a hedgehog was before him. It had run up to Sherlock, looking up at him, following him.

 

"What's this?" he said bemused. The hedgehog just liked up at him and didn't move. they seemed to stare at each other[ for what seemed like an eternity.

 

"What do want?" he asked more inquisitively that accusingly. The hedgehog didn't budge, but then for just a moment, Sherlock could of sworn that little hedgehog was calling his name, it had to be John, **it had to be.**

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it was so short, there will be quite a few updates and soon to make up for it
> 
> If you like what you see give me a follow on tumblr at foxfacewantspie.tumblr.com!


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